Chapter 10
Calder
The ceiling fan hummed like static, blades slicing through darkness that hadn’t decided to lift yet. My eyes opened before the alarm could start its useless beeping. Three hours of sleep, maybe less. The kind that left you half in a dream and half in a ditch.
I lay there for a second, staring at the water stain creeping across the ceiling. Looked a bit like Michigan if you squinted. Everything in this place was cracked, peeling, honest. No one here expected me to smile for a camera or apologize for existing.
My bones ached like they’d been filled with cement. The dry rasp in my throat reminded me I’d turned down a drink last night—for the fifth night straight. The hangover that never came still made itself known in every joint, every twitch of nerve demanding I feed it what it missed. I didn’t. Not today.
The apartment smelled faintly of sweat, paper, and cold air leaking through the window frame. I sat up, rubbed my face until I saw sparks, and reached for the clipboard on the floor. Pages of drills, practice notes, scratched-out comments. My handwriting looked like a man losing a fight with himself. But there was something in there now that resembled order—systems forming out of chaos. Small victories.
“Fuck,” I muttered, stretching until my back popped. “Progress.”
The fridge hummed in the corner, probably empty. I didn’t bother checking; I wasn’t hungry and didn’t trust what I’d find in there, anyway. Instead, I grabbed the pen from behind my ear and studied the roster again.Donovan.Her name stood out even in my chicken scratch. I forced the thought away, replaced it with diagrams of zone coverage and forecheck setups.Focus.This was what breathing felt like when you did it right.
In the bathroom, the light buzzed to life, too bright, catching the crust of fatigue under my eyes. The mirror gave back a version of me that looked older than forty-two. Skin rough, jaw shadowed. I found my razor where I’d left it—on the sink, half-rusted but still sharp enough to draw blood if I wasn’t careful.
The first drag scraped more than it shaved. Foam slid down my neck, pink with nicks by the third pass. Didn’t matter. The ritual helped. Made me look less like a ghost, more like a man who had places to be.
Water sluiced over the blade, rust and stubble circling the drain. I wiped my face, dried it with the same towel I’d used all week, and stared back at the stranger blinking at me. The lines around my eyes looked like cracked ice, dangerous if stepped on too hard.
I pulled on a jacket—leather, faded at the seams, the kind that still smelled faintly of rink air and broken promises. Clipboard under one arm, whistle dangling from my fingers. The city outside was barely stirring, pale light bleeding through the blinds like it hadn’t made up its mind either.
I met my reflection again and held its gaze.
“You wanted a shot, Shaw,” I muttered, voice rough. “So fucking take it.”
Then I killed the light and walked out the door.
The rink lightsflickered on one by one, spilling cold blue across the ice. I liked being here before anyone else. The stillness cut cleaner than coffee. My skates hissed as I pushed across the surface, tape and cones tucked under one arm, clipboard wedged between my elbow and ribs.
By the time the first assistant showed, half the ice looked like a math problem—cones lined tight, arrows drawn in marker across the boards and on the ice itself. Passing lanes. Angles. Puck routes the girls still couldn’t see yet.
“Morning, Coach,” Sam called, coffee in hand. He stopped short at the sight of the layout. “You, uh, redecorating?”
“Fixing it,” I said, pressing another strip of tape across the blue line.
The other assistant, Jen, hovered at the door, whistle dangling. “You’re early.”
“Right time for once,” I muttered. “They’re the ones late.”
They exchanged a look. Skated around carefully like they weren’t sure what version of me they were getting today. Fair call—half the time, I didn’t know either.
The entrance door clanked open down the tunnel. Voices echoed. Laughter. Stomping blades on concrete. The girls filed in, helmets clipped to bags, breath fogging in front of them. Still half-asleep.
“On the ice,” I barked. “No talk. Gear up.”
Surprise flickered through them. They expected a lazy warmup, slow laps like yesterday. Not today. I picked up the whistle and blew once, sharp enough to gut the chatter.
“Stickhandling serpentine!” I pointed at the first line of cones. “Quick cuts, head up, no lazy hands.”
Skates hit the ice in a staggered rhythm. A few hesitated. One tripped. I didn’t comment. Just reset the cone she’d sent flying and blew again.
“Next—transition chase. Two-on-one pressure. Defense pinches, forwards recover. Move like it’s real or don’t move at all.”
Sam raised his brows from the bench. “You running them through a playoff game, Shaw?”
“Trying to.”
